


The Thing About Harley

by lenorethefriendlyghost



Category: DCU (Comics), Nightwing (Comics)
Genre: Canon What Canon, Dick Grayson Needs a Hug, Drunken Shenanigans, F word, F/M, General fucked-upness of comic book psychiatry, but hugs don't always work, i need to practise tagging ugh, internalized ableism, minor Dick/Harley, no beta we die like the bats, weird people bond weirdly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-27
Updated: 2020-12-27
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:34:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28355511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lenorethefriendlyghost/pseuds/lenorethefriendlyghost
Summary: Possibly the weirdest friendship in Gotham.
Relationships: Dick Grayson & Harleen Quinzel
Comments: 2
Kudos: 27





	The Thing About Harley

The thing about Harley, is that there isn’t really a thing. Nothing. Nosirrr.

It’s just a little holiday blue. Baby blue. Guys notice gals who are a little blue. Unless they are all jittery and wear glasses.

The PhD probably didn’t help, too.

It’s just a little holiday blue. Then she’s muffling screams in her pillow. Then she’s staring at the ceiling in her cup, waiting for it to fall through.

Then it’s laughter and a jag of acid. The rest is ancient history. Now’s she’s greasing the hurricane in her skull with bright pink alcohol so it doesn’t burst out and ruin her hair.

The thing about the tweety bird, is that he happens to be here. One shot of whiskey and already too drunk and way too gorgeous to not be quite something. So she yanks him over by the collar and yells into his ear: a gal and a guy walk into a bar. Not that joke. What d’ya think?

He holds her against him in the alleyway, somehow still managing to brood. She kisses him to make up for the cold, neck straining. He leans forwards and she’s a dancer being dipped, his arms strong and spiteful, his lips gentle, sloppy, and generally out of sorts. She turns away from him, lipgloss sticky. You’re thinking about some guy. Too gay.

He sags and helps her upright. Pouting. Adorable, she thinks with distaste. Now she feels like such a pedo. Also, did the bartender check his ID?

Not like that. Says the kid, defensive.

Didn’t say nothin’.

You said it like. Ugh. Like I’m trying to piss off an ex. Am not.

Well, I am.

He peers at her. Well fuck.

Yup. Fuck is right. Too bad it’s off the table.

He snorts, a little thing like a sob.

They lean side by side on the slimy wall, shoulders bumping. Her arms are bare and he’s running hot. 

Fuck them. She blurts with sudden fervor. He starts. Fuck what they tell us to do. Also fuck what they won’t let us do.

Not much wiggle room left, then. He says wryly. Is his face a little green or is it the streetlight?

Why wiggle. There would be plenty of space to run. Jump. Cartwheel. You can fly if you like, cuz you’re such a little thing. Also, fuck.

Sounds nice. He says. Excuse me. Then he empties his stomach on the side walk.

She’s very glad they are not kissing anymore.

You should have eaten something before you run off. She says, critical.

He spits. Thought it would take the thunder out of it.

Your beef is with your dad. Leave your stomach out of it.

He lifts an eyebrow, too exhausted for that note of warning to really come across. Doctor’s order?

She scoffs. Fuck doctor. Wait, scratch that. Don’t fuck a doctor. They are the worst.

He has the pinched expression of someone finding out something he doesn’t want to know. Sounds like there are a lot of things you want to fuck, today.

Yes. She says decisively. Amma gonna write a book to tell everyone go fuck themselves. I would be a writer. Writer’s order is a thing, right?

You do that. I’ll even get a copy. He straightens up.

Where are you going?

He shrugs. Fly, I guess.

She does write the thing. Kinda sorta.

Churning out words isn’t the problem. Telling people to fuck themselves isn’t the problem. Having enough attention span to tie everything up with a little bow, is.

She shows up at her editor’s with a nice big book with a kitty on it. She even used a glittery marker that smears out real nice when you run a finger over the ink. The lady breaks the pen she’s holding. Totally hilarious, her face.

But everything is for sale in Gotham. So she’s sitting in front of a hundred or so copies of “Fantabulous Emancipation!” (whatever that means) with tacky pink and golden cover. Half the words inside ain’t even hers. The rest are in the wrong order.

No one comes, of course. No one wants to hear what you have to say when you’re not quite sane, and then again when you’re not quite crazy.

Then someone does come. Several someones, in fact. All of them rumbled from the grime on the street, eyes delightfully wild. She’s thrilled and giddy and reading a chapter on fuck the Joker and also fuck Batman, also eat a lot of veggie and work out twice a day. A bearded guy at the front nods sagely, greasy fingers thumbing a brand new twenty bucks.

She looks across the hall and sees him behind a shelf.

The thing about the tweety bird, is that he’s disgustingly kind.

She grabs a copy of the book that isn’t quite hers and slams it on his stupid pretty face.

I don’t deserve this. He says, holding a coke against his nose.

Yes, yes you do. She throws a chip into her mouth and chews aggressively.

I don’t. And now my heart is broken. He sniffs.

Can’t have that. Look at those baby blues.

Here, have a burger. She nudges a paper bag across the table.

Turns out burgers do heal broken hearts. Who’da thought?

Sorry about your wiggle room. Cartwheel room. He says, licking off a speck of cheese from the corner of his mouth. Yum.

She waves a chip, distracted. You, though. You found your room to fly. What brings you back to this hellhole. I’m guessing it’s not yours truly.

He huffs. Doctors suck, you said. So don’t act like one.

She debates jamming the chip into his eye. Instead, she says, the new kid?

Bingo and bang. One point to Harley. And what does she get for her wonderful insight? An icy glare, apparently.

After a while his face softens enough to say: the kid’s not the problem. 

The kid never is.

His eyes friggin’ thawed. Horrifying. Now she wants her burger back.

He buries his face in his palms. Thankfully. Nope. I’m not doing this with you.

She raises a hand: seconded.

He stands abruptly. Stay out of trouble, okay? Write another book or something. And don’t touch that kid.

Turns out a certain someone did touch that kid.

She wasn’t around for that bit.

Things are fine, after that book thing. Then there’s Pam. Then Pam’s saying: you should take your meds, Har. Then she’s thinking: what the hell am I doing with a doctor again?

The rest is all a blur. Bats. Arkham. Feeding tubes. Bing bang. Roughly in that order.

Tough man to find, aren’t ya. She slurs, triumphant, when she sees him huddled in a corner. Her legs and wrists are still trembling from residue drug haze, heart pounding against ribcage. His apartment looks completely trashed, and also full of tiny pink unicorns running around. Heh.

He turns towards her, eyebrows drawn, eyes glassy and not quite seeing.

Well, she heard. The thing about the tweety bird, is that he’s not quite tweety anymore.

Do you still want to piss off your dad? Cuz I have another ex I wanna piss off. She stumbles towards him. Then stops.

The front of his gray shirt is black with blood.

Dread pools cold and heavy at the pit of her stomach. The warm numbness lifts. Hold, just hold on. She breathes, and almost necks herself on the bathroom door.

She crouches in front of him, med-kit open on her lap, a needle held precariously between two long nails.

The fuck. He hisses, coming back to himself. Gimme that.

He yanks the needle from her. Somehow his hand is shaking even more than Harley’s. They both stare at the silvery blur for a bit. Then he returns the needle with a huff.

He’s eerily quiet through the whole thing, all clenching muscles and choked down groans. Somewhere between her leaving a seriously deformed centipede beside his abs and her cleaning off the blood on his too pale skin, she loses him again. She pats his cheek clumsily with the back of her hand. Earth to birdie.

A while, too long, and he looks back at her with eyes like broken glass.

How you feeling?

He thinks about this. 

Dead. He says. Curt. Wobbly.

She holds him against her chest, mindful of the nametag on her orderly onesie that says her name is Steve.

Not dead. She says fiercely. Wrong bird. This little bird is alive.

Why, though. He chokes out. And he looks like a kid all over again.

She cups his cheeks, smearing blood all over. It’ll pass, she beams at him, desperate. It’s nothing. It’s just a little blue. Baby blue. Gals like guys who are a little blue. Beautiful blue bird, you are.

And for a second he’s seething with unadulterated rage. Then it seems to trickle out of him, as he takes her in. Her matted hair. Smeared mascara. Lipgloss that missed its mark. Stolen suit. Nails clawing at the skin on her elbow, mixing their blood together. His face crumbles. She wants to bash his skull in but also to hug him.

So she leaves.

Yer skinny. Have you been eating? She demands, all the while swinging her hammer full force at his head.

Geez. Way to make a guy feel insecure. He covers his heart dramatically, dodging her attack with an effortless back-bend.

Seriously. Even he looks more healthy. She jabs a thumb at Red Robin, and yanks it back, narrowly avoiding an escrima stick.

Now you’re just talking nonsense. He follows up with a high-kick, lightening fast, clipping her cheek. Red birdie sputters in the background, indignant.

Okay, maybe that was a stretch, she allows. But what about him! She thrusts the hammer into Nightwing’s stomach, handle pointing at Red Hood, who’s cutting away thick and writhing vines covering a shipping container with extreme prejudice. Who’s ever gonna believe he’s your baby brother.

Can I shoot her now? Growls Red Hood. Real charmer, that one.

Don’t be like that, Hood. Nightwing grins, not even a little bit winded, which, rude. We’re just catching up.

And yeah. If Nightwing was aiming to subdue her, the fight woulda been over before you can say “subdue.” As it is, he’s just trying to keep her from trying to keep Pam from getting caught. Her only business here.

No point in that now. From her spot Harley can see Batman pinning her against a van.

She signs, cartwheeling back with flourish. Nightwing doesn’t follow.

Well. See ya, then. She says, because there’s something embarrassing about running off with his eyes on her back.

She makes it two steps before he calls out, almost gentle. Harley.

She turns around to blink at him.

Can we meet? I want to tell you something. His voice is raspy. Nothing like the showman voice from earlier.

They meet at that same burger place, so many years ago. Her burger place. She gets picked up by the bats many times since then, but never here.

Stupid, stupidly kind, her little bird.

She finds him by the window, playing with a brand new bottle of meds with his long and scarred fingers.

It didn’t go away. He says, as explanation.

They slump there, utterly dejected. The weight of a small, stupid bottle.

Don’t. She says, finally.

I have to. A lot of people die when I’m a crybaby all the time.

At least when you cry, the tears are yours.

He looks at her with his big, sad, baby blue eyes.

But I’m not my tears, Harley.

He runs a finger on the rim of his glass. A faint ringing. Then he counts out his pills.

She makes a pathetic choking noise when he swallows.

Hey. Hey. He moves his hand close to hers, but not quite touching. I’m going to be alright.

Or maybe you’re never gonna be alright. She doesn’t say. Maybe no one will want to hear what you have to say again. Maybe everyone will take a look at your broken-glass eyes, and tell you to take your pills.

But the thing about the tweety bird, is that he always finds a way to fly again.

The thing about Harley, is that maybe someday she will, too.


End file.
